I Fell For You
by Story.Lightning
Summary: AU. Kid!Lock. Sherlock is ten when he wakes up one morning to find a strangely happy person in his room, who isn't actually a person at all...
1. I Can See You

**A/N**_: I was listening to the song "Little Ghost" by The White Stripes and this idea came into my head. An hour later and BOOM! Output le fic. _

**DISCLAIMER**_: I do not own ParaNorman or the song or BBC Sherlock et cetera. The only thing I own was these ideas mixed together to form a written document. This is pretty much the product. Ta-flippin'-da._

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

Sherlock was ten when he met his ghost. It was seven in the morning, and he was yawning and rubbing the recent night's dreams from his eyes.

"It can't be morning already," Sherlock moaned, turning over and trying to go back to sleep.

"Actually, it is!" A voice said.

Sherlock's eyes sprung open. That wasn't Mummy. That wasn't Mycroft. Then who-

"Hello!"

Sherlock turned over and squinted at the rising sun coming through his window. He shielded the glare with his hand to see where the the voice was emanating from. Standing in front of the window was a boy. The boy's mouth was smiling, and his head was tilted a bit to the right. Sherlock noticed that the sunlight looked as if the rays were going through the boy. Odd.

"You just moved here, right?"

Sherlock nodded, then sat up. "How did you get in here? Who are you?" He quickly looked around his room for possible options. His door was still closed, and from the position of the shirt on the doorknob, hadn't been moved since last night. The window was locked, so no option there.

The boy's face had lit up. "Oh! I'm John! Nice to meet you!" John held out his hand.

Sherlock, suspicious, slowly extended his arm to grasp John's hand. He tried to grab John's hand, and his hand went directly through it.

_Directly through the boy's hand._

Sherlock gasped, and accidentally fell out of bed tumbling on the floor. He groaned.

"Oh! Sorry! I should have walked closer. You leaned right out of bed!"

"Interesting."

"Huh?"

Sherlock had pushed himself up and sat cross-legged on the floor. "You're a ghost."

John frowned and tilted his head. "Well…yeah. I am."

Sherlock assessed John's outlook. He was wearing a jumper that was too big for him, and shorts. The jumper's sleeves were slightly over his hands and stretched over the top of his shorts. His hair was blond, short, and in need of a haircut; the left shoe untied, and socks folded over, the right one slightly dirty on the outside from the ankle to the top of the fold.

"You appear to be a few years younger from myself…judging from the jumper's size, it must have been a family members, maybe your fathers. Only one of your shoes are tied, and the opposite leg of the untied shoe must mean that you tripped and fallen down, somewhere dirty, maybe the pavement, or-"

"HEY!"

Sherlock looked up. John's face clearly showed worry, and he had sat down in front of Sherlock, knees pulled into his chest; his hands clasped in front of his legs.

"I said are you okay?"

Sherlock blinked for a moment, then replied, "I'm fine. I speak out loud sometimes, when I'm thinking."

John smiled brightly. "Oh, okay! Good!"

Sherlock couldn't help but to smile back. He decided that he liked John, and ignored the fact that he had came into his room without permission.

John then gasped. "I've got it! Could you grab that over there?"

Sherlock looked to where John pointed. "The bear?"

"Yeah!"

The bear John pointed at was a stuffed animal with a little checkered bow tie and gloves. His neighbors had given him before they moved. Sherlock had wanted to throw it away, but his mum had made him keep it and mumble out a "Thank you" before they left. Sherlock went to grab the bear and sat back down.

"Sit the bear in front of me."

Sherlock did. John then reached his arm out and made his hand go through the bear's arm, making the end of the bear's fingers the end of John's fingers as well, albeit also making John's hand slightly going back into the bear's arm.

"Grab the bear's arm and shake it up and down."

Sherlock knew what John was doing. He smiled vibrantly as he shook John's 'hand.'

"Pleasure to meet you, John."

"Same…what's your name?"

"Sherlock."

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock!"

They both laughed and shook 'hands' for a while. Then, when they stopped, Sherlock frowned.

"John."

"Huh?"

"When I was…analyzing you…you didn't think I was…" Sherlock bit his lip and lowered his head.

"Was what?"

"…Weird?"

John tilted his head again. "Why would I think that?"

"Other people…they don't like it when I do it."

"Well, I think it's amazing!"

Sherlock's head popped up in surprise. "Really?"

"Extraordinary!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You probably don't even know what that word means!"

"I don't! But it sounds like the right word!"

They laughed again. There was a knock at the door, as Mycroft entered the room.

Sherlock looked at him and frowned.

"Oh, you're up. That's different. Usually you're asleep."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock started playing with the stuffed, bear's glove again.

"Breakfast is ready on the table," Mycroft replied. "Hurry up, or you'll be late for school." He looked at his brother's position, clearly trying to evaluate what Sherlock was doing. Finally, he shrugged and left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Was that your brother?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. He then pulled some clothes from his wardrobe and went to the side of the room. He pulled on a shirt and switched his pants. When he was finished, he looked up to see John facing the window, rocking back and forth on his heels.

Sherlock grinned. "You know, you didn't have to turn away for me to get dressed."

John turned around, his face a bright red. "Oh! No, it's just…my mum told me to turn around when someone's getting dressed. It's polite."

"Well, I don't mind," Sherlock said.

"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft called up the stairs.

"COMING!" Sherlock yelled. He held out his hand. "Coming?"

John froze. "How?"

Sherlock walked over and reached for John's hand. It went directly through John's, but he pulled back and placed his hand where John's would be.

"Just keep your hand on mine," Sherlock said.

"Okay."

Sherlock opened the door and john followed behind, in such a way that it looked like Sherlock was sneaking John out of his room. Sherlock tried to keep a straight face as he walked down the stairs discretely (and failed), with John floating down behind him, smiling and blushing himself into oblivion.

* * *

"_**No one else can know the secret of our love."**_

* * *

**A/N(2)**_: Should there be a Chapter 2?_


	2. Family Encounters

**DISCLAIMER**_: I do not own ParaNorman or the song or BBC Sherlock et cetera. The only thing I own was these ideas mixed together to form a written document._

* * *

They couldn't see him. His family couldn't see John. This was evident as Sherlock and John descended the stairs into the kitchen. He stood in the entrance with John by his side, still 'holding' his hand. His mother closed the fridge door and spotted Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed. "Why are you just standing there? Sit down and eat; you're going to be late!"

Sherlock looked from his mother to his brother. Sensing someone staring at him, Mycroft looked up.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sherlock stated. He sat down at the table to a bowl of cereal, his hand still 'clutching' John's.

"They…"John started, his other sleeve held up to his face. "They can't see me?"

Sherlock shook his head sadly. He knew John was disappointed, he could hear it in his voice. He stared into his bowl.

"Sherlock, why are you only eating with one hand?"

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, who's arms were crossed in front of him and a face that held a disapproving expression.

"How am I supposed to use two hands for cereal?"

"One for the spoon, one for the bowl. You've always eaten like that."

"Maybe I wanted a change."

"Maybe so, but-"

"Oh boys," their mother interrupted. "Mycroft, is it really that wrong that Sherlock is eating differently today?"

"He's acting even more weird than usual, Mum."

"_Mycroft_!"

Sherlock kept his mouth shut as his mother scolded Mycroft. This was the usual for him. It happened almost every morning, and sometimes even in the evenings. Mycroft called him weird, and his mother immediately admonished him. As the older ones of the house talked, Sherlock leaned on the table and played with his cereal, repeatedly scooping up and watching the contents plop back into the bowl.

"Sherlock, don't play with your food."

Sherlock dropped his spoon, sighed, and sat up. He turned to share a glance with John, but he wasn't there. His insides froze.

_Did John leave? Oh, please don't let him be gone._

Sherlock looked subtly around the room, trying hard not to attract attention to himself. His eyes finally focused on a spot by Mycroft's head, and he sighed a silent relief.

_There he is._

John was looking intensely at Mycroft, and he wasn't smiling. He was floating in the air, with his hands on his non-existent hips and his eyebrows furrowed. He leaned over.

"Sherlock's not _weird_, leave him alone!"

Sherlock was taken aback. _John…_

"Sherlock is brilliant! _You're_ just a big meanie!" John stuck his tongue out and made faces at Mycroft, while Mycroft kept speaking to his mother, oblivious to John's antics.

_He has no idea what's going on behind his head,_ Sherlock thought. He held back his laughter, and it would have worked, hadn't John started shaking his butt at Mycroft's head.

He couldn't help it. Sherlock cackled. It was sudden, loud, and a bit out of control. Mycroft and their mother abruptly stopped talking and watched as Sherlock laughed randomly with his arms crossing his abdomen. John had stopped and smiled at Sherlock's reaction with glee.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft tried, but Sherlock still laughed. He laughed so uncontrollably that he fell out of his chair and onto the cold, hard ground.

"Sherlock!" his mother cried, jumping out of her chair and rushing to help Sherlock up.

"Oh, god, Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked as he went to the fallen boy's side.

His mother pulled him to his feet. Sherlock blinked a few times, trying to regain his composure. Finally, he looked up at his mother and asked:

"May I be excused?"

* * *

Sherlock and John laughed madly as they walked to Sherlock's school.

"You shook your _bum_ right by his _head_!"

"He deserved it!" Another burst of laughter.

People were watching as Sherlock walked down the street, seemingly laughing to himself. Some pitied him. Some people looked away in disgust. Others looked on, confused as ever. Within the few months that his family moved there, the neighborhood all knew that Sherlock was different. They never spoke to him, on account of being afraid of what the boy would say. It was as if he knew a person's entire life story, just by a small glance. It was unnerving, so people kept their distance.

The boy's laughter had quieted down, and they walked the length of the block in silence. They rounded a corner.

"Hey John."

John looked up. "Huh?"

"You actually…think I'm brilliant?"

"John looked confused for a moment. Then he smiled. "Of course!"

"How? You've only just met me."

"The thing you said about my jumper this morning. You were right!" John held up a sleeve. "It's my dad's. I was trying it on."

"You mean, before you-" Sherlock paused. "Before you died?"

John shrugged. "I guess so…I don't remember."

"Hmm…how old are you?"

John scratched his head. "Nine, I think…yeah, I'm nine! How old are you?"

"Ten."

"That's a year older than me!" John exclaimed, his brilliant smile returning.

Sherlock smiled back.

The rest of the way to school they walked in silence, still smiling. Finally, they reached the school.

"Wow," John said as they stood in the front yard. "There're a lot of kids here."

"Didn't your school have kids?"

"Well, _yeah_…but not _this_ many," John said in awe.

They stared at the front of the school, waiting, until class finally started.

"UGH!" Sherlock groaned.

"What?" John asked. "Oh. You don't _like_ school."

"It's as slow as a snail and as mundane as watching paint dry."

John nodded. "Mundane…?"

"_Boring_."

"Oh." John glanced at the school once more. Then, he grinned. "Well _today_ it won't be!"

"What?"

"Come on!" John ran up to the entrance. He paused, ran back to Sherlock, and held out his hand. "Coming?"

Sherlock smiled and 'took' John's hand. John ran in front of him, and Sherlock followed. If you could actually see ghosts, it would've looked as if John was actually dragging Sherlock into school.

Sherlock laughed like a maniac at John through the whole school day; whenever John made faces at the teacher, or danced on the desks while the teacher was lecturing.

He decided that it was the best school day he'd ever had.

* * *

**A/N:Thank you to everyone who've viewed, reviewed, favorited, followed, et cetera. I'm guessing you want another chapter, right?**


	3. A Ghost Reaction

**DISCLAIMER**_: I do not own ParaNorman or the song or BBC Sherlock et cetera. The only thing I own was these ideas mixed together to form a written document._

* * *

A few weeks went by, and John was still there. He waited on Sherlock to wake up in the mornings, sat with him at breakfast, and walked with him to school. They were inseparable. John had stopped distracting Sherlock in class – on account of getting Sherlock into trouble – and ended up just sitting next to him while the teacher droned on.

One night, Sherlock was doing homework on his desk while John laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Sherlock," John spoke.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed, focusing on a problem.

"I was just wondering…why aren't you scared of me?"

Sherlock cracked a smile while writing. "Why _would_ I be scared of you?"

John sat up. "Well…most people are usually afraid of ghosts. Or, you know, that's what I've heard. When we met , you acted as if you meet ghosts every day!"

"I'm not most people," Sherlock replied simply, "and I can assure you that you are the first ghost I've ever met."

"Oh…okay."

Sherlock stopped writing and looked up. John was staring solemnly at his shoes, playing lamely with his laces. Sherlock frowned.

"John?"

He responded half-heartedly. "Huh?"

_Something's wrong, _ Sherlock thought_. But…what am I supposed to say?_ "Uh…are you alright?"

"I'm fine," John responded.

"Oh…good." Sherlock silently kicked himself. _He is not fine! Look at how he's hunched over, the slow movements he's making-_

"What're you doing?"

Sherlock turned and jumped. John was floating over his shoulder, looking at his notebook.

"Maths," Sherlock said.

"Oh." John leaned over a little more, squinting.

_He wants to talk._ Sherlock stole a glance at John looking over his shoulder. _He's trying to understand the problems._ He also noted how John's bottom lip popped out slightly when he was thinking, and how pointed his gaze was. John then slowly extended his arm across the desk. Sherlock watched as John's finger protruded from his fist and pointed to the next unsolved problem on the page.

"That one's eight," John said confidently.

Sherlock examined the problem. John was wrong. The answer was twelve. Sherlock opened his mouth to correct John, but stopped himself. John was smiling again, a look of accomplishment on his face. It amazed Sherlock how John can go from sad to happy in such a small amount of time. He didn't want that smile to go away.

_No,_ Sherlock decided. _The answer is eight._

John caught Sherlock staring while he was thinking. "What's wrong?" John asked. "Did I get the answer wrong?"

Sherlock gasped and shook his head. "No, no." He quickly wrote the 'correct' numeral on the page. He smiled back at John. "It's right."

_Knock, Knock, Knock._

Sherlock groaned. "Yes, Mycroft?"

"Dinner's downstairs."

Sherlock closed his book and placed it back in his backpack. He stood and brushed off the eraser dust and pencil shavings. He then held out his hand and thought the word that was an inside secret between the two boys.

John, still grinning, nodded furiously and placed his hand in Sherlock's.

* * *

"_Your birthday's in a month_?" John asked as they ascended the stairs.

Sherlock groaned. "Yes."

John tilted his head. "Well, why'd you say it like that? You don't like your birthday?"

Sherlock opened his door and closed it after John came in. "Yes."

"Yes, you _do _like your birthday?"

"No, yes I _don't_ like my birthday." Sherlock said, pulling out his pajamas and closing his wardrobe.

John sat cross-legged on the bed. "Why not?"

Sherlock turned around. He removed his clothes from that day and started to replace them with his night clothes. "It's just another year, another age; nothing great."

John hesitated. "But Sherlock…it's _your_ birthday. That's pretty great if you ask me."

Sherlock froze as he pulled on his bottoms. "Why do you say that?"

"Because it's the celebration of you being born eleven years ago. The great Sherlock. Sherlock…what's your last name again?"

"Holmes."

"The great Sherlock Holmes, born eleven years ago and will live for many more years to come. How's that just another year?"

Sherlock, a bit awe-struck, turned around. He smiled. John was looking out the window, the tips of his ears red.

"I told you I didn't care if you looked or not," Sherlock said.

"Oh, uh- I know. Still…"

Sherlock laughed. John turned around and hid his blushing face with his sleeve.

"So…" John said, his voice slightly muffled by the cloth. "Mycroft and your mum are planning a party?"

"They do every year."

"Well, that's nice of them. Parties are fun. You get presents, balloons everywhere, all your friends come over-"

"I don't have any friends," Sherlock quickly replied.

"Oh…" John was quiet for a moment as he lowered his arm. "Well…you still get presents!"

Sherlock got into bed and smiled at John's words. "Yes…I still get presents."

He leaned over his bedside table and turned the light off. He got comfortable and looked over at John. The moon rays were glimmering down on Sherlock's floor, where John was laying. The light went through John's spirit, as if John was actually glowing. Sherlock took in that moment, memorizing every detail of it. He was so focused on remembering the scene in front of him that it took a moment to realize that John was actually sleeping.

"John," Sherlock asked in a low voice. "Why are you sleeping on the floor?"

John turned on his side and yawned. He opened his eyes slightly.

"Where else am I going to sleep?" John responded drowsily.

"There's enough room on the bed."

John slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. "I," yawn, "couldn't. It's your bed."

"And I'm offering to share it."

"Really, Sherlock, I can't even _feel _the floor."

_He's got a point there,_ Sherlock thought. Still, something was bothering him about John sleeping on the floor. I didn't feel right.

"You can still come up later if you want," Sherlock said.

"Okay," John yawned. "G'night, Sherlock."

Sherlock laid back down and turned over, but didn't go to sleep_. I wouldn't think ghosts would ever get tired or have the signs of being tired…the more you know, I guess…_

"Sherlock?" John whispered.

Sherlock opened his eyes. John was floating over the side of the bed.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Can I...?" John motioned to the empty space beside Sherlock on the bed.

"Oh. Yes. Of course."

John smiled and got on the bed. It didn't even move.

_I don't know what I expected,_ Sherlock thought_. Well, obviously not that._

John pulled off his jumper and pulled in his knees, lying the faded yellow pullover over his person. His toes stuck out at the end, and John laughed. He closed his eyes.

For some reason, Sherlock felt better. He scolded himself for not offering the side of the bed sooner. The floor looked cold.

_Not that he would feel cold,_ Sherlock wondered. _But then again, his jumper…_ He shook his head_. It doesn't matter now, he's fine._ Sherlock watched John sleep, and almost panicked when he didn't see John's chest moving.

_He's dead, why would he be breathing-_

It was then that the realization hit him. _John…John he's…he's dead. Dead._

"_The great Sherlock Holmes, born eleven years ago and will live for many more years to come. How's that just another year?"_

He saw John adjust to get comfortable, a frozen smile plastered on his face.

Sherlock smiled as he felt a tear fall from his eye.

"Goodnight, John."

* * *

"_**When I held her I was really holding air."**_


	4. Realization Can Hurt

**DISCLAIMER**_: I do not own ParaNorman or the song or BBC Sherlock et cetera. The only thing I own was these ideas mixed together to form a written document._

**A/N: This chapter took me awhile, sorry about that. Anyway, enjoy, and look at my other stuffs if you get bored or something…okay, to the chapter!**

* * *

The next few weeks went slow for Sherlock. John still went everywhere with him, and everyday Sherlock just stared.

_Dead,_ Sherlock would think, _he's…dead._

It wasn't John being dead that Sherlock couldn't believe. It was that he wasn't _alive_. He just couldn't _process_ it. Every time John smiled, or did something that made Sherlock laugh, he'd stop and think about how John wasn't actually laughing with him. He wasn't making him laugh. He wasn't doing anything. Or, at least by definition he wasn't.

He knew that John was worried about him; about why he was being so quiet. And he was grateful that he didn't ask.

As Sherlock was walking in his school hallway, lost in his thoughts as he looked at the ground, he was suddenly jerked backward and landed squarely on his bottom. The children around him laughed as he rubbed his backside.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, kneeling beside his fallen friend. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock groaned and nodded as he got to his feet. "I'm fine."

"Nobody asked you, weirdo," a boy said as he laughed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He could recognize that voice anywhere. "Anderson."

"Who?" John asked.

The boy – Anderson – walked up to Sherlock and grabbed him by the collar. "What's the matter, Shirley? Did you slip on the wet floor like a little baby?"

The floor was dry. Sherlock sighed. "I thought you were suspended."

"Two months can fly by like a bird, don't you think? And besides, I missed you," Anderson toyed. He then yanked Sherlock's collar down and threw him on the ground.

"_Leave him alone!"_ John screamed. Sherlock watched as John angrily threw himself against the bully to try and stop him – and passed right through him, falling to the ground on his hands and knees.

"Jo-" Sherlock forced out of his lungs before he was roughly pulled to his feet.

"Did you miss me?" Anderson asked. He then raised his fist and slammed it into Sherlock's head.

"_SHERLOCK!"_

* * *

Sherlock awoke in his own room, his body aching as if he ran into a brick wall…

Or got slammed repeatedly into the pavement.

He tried lifting his head, but it felt heavy, and it was painful. He groaned as he slowly sat his head back on the pillow.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?"

John. Sherlock's heart fell as he remembered John screaming and beating Anderson on the back as he got pummeled to the ground, his fists causing no pain or grief to Sherlock's foe as Anderson continued to batter Sherlock into the ground.

Sherlock turned his head toward John. He was crying as he leaning over Sherlock's bed, his hands covering his eyes.

"Oh god, Sherlock, I'm sorry! I tried to – but then he – and then you – and I tried, I really did – but I couldn't even -" John started to wail. "Oh, I'm so sorry!"

Sherlock's heart sank even more. "John, it wasn't your fault."

"I couldn't save you!" John cried, his tears running down his cheeks and disappearing into nothingness.

"You did what you could," Sherlock stated, wincing as he tried to sit up.

"But you still got beaten up! And couldn't even–"

"John," Sherlock said, "It's not your fault."

"But -"

"John." Sherlock mustered up the strongest vice he could. "It's. Not. Your. Fault." He reached out to place his hand 'on' John's. "And it never will be."

John sniffed and wiped his face with his oversized sleeve.

"Okay?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded gloomily. "M'kay."

_Knock. Knock-Knock._

Sherlock looked up at his door. "Yes, Mum?"

His door opened. "You're awake! And you're sitting up! Good! I brought some of your dinner up, in case you were hungry."

"Thank you." He wasn't hungry.

His mother placed the food on his desk, then sat on Sherlock's bed. John moved to the other side, as if it would make a difference. His mother sighed and gently caressed his hair, like she always did when she was worried about him.

"He's been suspended again," she spoke, "that Anderson boy."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I guessed so."

Sherlock's mother smiled sadly. "Yes." Sherlock noticed that she was analyzing him; his scars, his bruises, his eye, frowning at each scratch or scrape on his legs and arms.

"I was thinking," she said, breaking the silence, "that you should change schools."

Sherlock's eyes – eye – widened. "Really?"

"Yes, really. I've thought about it-"

"Absolutely."

"What?"

Sherlock was smiling widely, even though it hurt to do so. "When am I switching? Tomorrow? Next week?"

His mother hesitated. Then her smile returned. "This needed to happen sooner. I should've known you'd be on board with this idea."

Sherlock nodded and flinched as his head started pulsating.

"Oh my," his mother said. "You need rest. I have you awake when you need to be asleep." She helped him slide back under the covers and kissed his forehead. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mummy."

She switched off his light and closed the door behind her as she left. John went to the other side of the bed, and was smiling from ear to ear.

"You're switching schools!" John exclaimed. "That means you don't have to see that mean kid again!"

"Yes."

John tried to hug Sherlock, but ended up falling through his torso. Sherlock smiled even more. This wasn't the first time that this had happened. As John rested on his side of the bed, Sherlock didn't sleep. He was in too much pain. Every time he tried to change his position, one side of his body would remind him of how sore he really was. So he stayed on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

"Sherlock?"

"John, I thought you were asleep already." Sherlock turned his head to look at John. The other boy was lying on his side, facing Sherlock.

"I can't sleep," John said quietly.

"Try counting sheep."

John counted sheep. Sherlock listened as John counted under his breath.

"Nine, ten, eleven…" Then: "Can you tell me a story?"

Sherlock was mildly startled at John's request. "I don't know any stories."

"Oh."

The room was silent as the two boys laid in bed.

"Alright."

"Yay, good…hey Sherlock."

"You don't want the story?"

"No, I do! It's just…Happy Birthday."

Sherlock jumped. "But my birthday's –"

"Tomorrow, I know. But I wanted to be the first one to tell you."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you."

John grinned in return. "You're welcome."

Sherlock sighed against his pillows as he looked back up at the ceiling. _Happy birthday…_

"Once upon a time, in a small forest near a town like ours…"


	5. The Best Years of Your Life?

**DISCLAIMER**_: I do not own ParaNorman or the song or BBC Sherlock et cetera. The only thing I own was these ideas mixed together to form a written document._

**UPDATE: Rating change from K+ to T due to language.**

* * *

**~SIX YEARS LATER~**

* * *

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, just as the sun shone through his window. He smiled. John was still there. Every morning, he would be there. Even if he was awake before Sherlock, John would just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Sherlock to yawn and, usually, roll off the bed. He was an early riser, John was. Or, rather, Sherlock was a late sleeper. It was like this every morning, and Sherlock liked it that way.

This morning, John's eyes were still closed. Not sleeping, but just closed. Sherlock raised his arm and tried poking John's arm. He went right through. Sherlock sighed sadly. Every morning, John would be lying right next to him, and every time Sherlock tried, he still couldn't touch him. Why he expected something else to happen evaded him, but he did it every day, nonetheless.

"John," Sherlock whispered.

John smiled. "I'm awake, Sherlock."

"I know."

John turned over. "Good morning," he whispered.

"Morning," Sherlock whispered back.

They both were silent. Then, a laugh bubbled up into their chests. They laughed silently.

"Ah," Sherlock said, sitting up and moved his feet to the floor. "We're too old for that, John!"

"Well, at least you look your age!" John countered.

John was right. Within six years, Sherlock had grown to become a tall, lanky teenage boy with a mop of curly brown hair. John still looked about nine years old with the mind of an adolescent, which made Sherlock inwardly smile every time John yelled "Piss off!" at him whenever he clowned.

Sherlock smiled. "You're adorable, John."

"Oh shut up."

Sherlock changed, went downstairs, ate, said goodbye to his mum, and set off to school. John and Sherlock talked and laughed the entire way, with passerby's giving Sherlock odd looks and questionable glances.

Sherlock walked across the lawn, ignoring other people's stares and whispers. John stayed quiet, but glared at everyone he and Sherlock passed.

A ball headed toward Sherlock, and he ducked. Sherlock sighed as everyone on the lawn started laughing.

Dim-witted morons, Sherlock thought. How is that in the least bit funny?

"Hey, Shirley!"

_Fuck._

Sherlock groaned loudly. "Leave me alone, Anderson. I'm not in the mood."

Anderson came up behind him and slung a sweaty arm over Sherlock's shoulders. Over the years, Anderson had stopped beating on Sherlock, ever since Sherlock had grown a head taller than him. But, he still annoyed him greatly.

"Oh come on," Anderson whined as he struggled to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. "You don't want to-**"**

"No," Sherlock said, gingerly pulling Anderson's arm over his head and dropping it. "I have to go to class now. I also suggest using deodorant." And without another word, Sherlock walked away from Anderson.

And into the real problem.

Sherlock wasn't paying attention and accidentally ran into the one person he purposely avoided.

_Double Fuck._

"Sherlock!"

"Ah…James."

James Moriarty laughed and playfully punched Sherlock on the arm. "I told you, call me Jimmy."

"Right…Jimmy."

Sherlock didn't like Jimmy. He seemed like he was obsessed with Sherlock, always following him around, imitating how he deduced people – even though he had no idea what he was doing. He also knew that Sherlock talked to 'thin air' as everyone said, and Sherlock saw him one day talking to a wall. Sherlock had looked carefully. There was no ghost. He was talking to the wall.

John didn't like Jimmy, either. At that moment, John was hopelessly trying to pull at Jimmy's lapel, muttering: "Bloody hell, can't Sherlock get some peace once in a while from you?" and "Christ, why is your face that close to his? BACK UP."

Sherlock was also thinking John's latter sentence. Jimmy had leaned his head in too close to Sherlock's face, and Sherlock frowned.

"Jame- err, Jimmy. What are you doing?"

Jimmy smiled. "I'm deducting your face."

"Ah…huh." Sherlock squinted. "Would you mind, just…_backing off from my face_?"

Jimmy jumped at the intensity in Sherlock's voice. "Oh! I'm sorry! Are you claustrophobic?"

"I don't like people getting too close to me without permission," Sherlock said as he straightened his school shirt. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be in class."

"Right!" Jimmy moved out of his way. As Sherlock left, he looked over his shoulder. Jimmy was waving frantically. Sherlock kept walking.

"Did you see that?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded and pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket. "This is the twelfth time he tried to give me his number. Again, I saw him slip it in when he was leaning too closely."

"Well, at least he didn't try to toss it through your window tied to a rock," John said.

"Don't remind me. Oh, and if we're counting rock incidents, then this makes it the fifteenth time." Sherlock took his seat in class. Soon, the class was filled with children, and the bell rang. Everyone took their seat.

"Everyone, this is Greg Lestrade. He'll be joining our class."

There were some unenthusiastic greetings from some people in class, and Greg nodded politely and gave a small smile.

_Son of an officer at Scotland Yard,_ Sherlock analyzed. _No, a son of a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard._

"Sherlock, your murmuring," John whispered.

Sherlock sat up and bit his tongue.

"But how do you know?" John asked. "About whom his father was?"

Sherlock pulled out a piece of paper and wrote down:

_His pants are evenly creased, his shirt slightly wrinkled. No father with a high importance would ever let their son step out of the house looking badly. The way his hair is cut is the same as the officers at Scotland Yard. Importance and officer mean Detective Inspector._

He moved the paper over so that John could read it. John looked it over, sitting back as he read. Finally, he looked up.

"Incredible."

The class droned on, and as the dismissal bell rang, Sherlock was already out of his seat. He hurriedly moved to the door, but it was too late. Jimmy was already there, waiting for him.

"Can't you get a restraining order or something?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked.

"Sherlock!" Jimmy said, waiving as Sherlock stepped out of the room, "hey! So, I was thinking, maybe after school…"

"Uh…no, I have to go home after school." Sherlock said.

"Oh," Jimmy said sadly. "Okay. Well, I'll just walk with you to your next class."

"No, Jimmy, it's really-"

"I insist!"

Sherlock sighed. "Jimmy, your class is the other way."

"Yeah?"

Sherlock tried something else. "You'll be late."

"That's okay!"

"Jimmy, go to class, I'll be fine."

"But-"

"Go!"

Jimmy frowned. "Okay, Sherlock." Then his smile returned. "See you tomorrow!" He waived as he scampered off.

John sighed as he went away. "He's getting more persistent."

Sherlock nodded. This was going to be a bigger problem than what he expected.

* * *

**A/N: I was a little lazy in typing this up, so I procrastinated. Yay. Sorry about that.**


	6. That Was Unexpected

**DISCLAIMER**_: I do not own ParaNorman or the song or BBC Sherlock et cetera. The only thing I own was these ideas mixed together to form a written document._

* * *

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

"To the loo, Jimmy." Sherlock kept walking.

"Oh, okay! I'll come with you!" Jimmy laughed and ran to keep up with Sherlock's pace.

Sherlock's eye twitched. "No…no, no need for that. Why don't you…save us a seat for lunch or something?"

Jimmy stared as if Sherlock had just discovered a new element on the periodic table. "That is a _brilliant _idea!" And with that, Jimmy raced off.

"Good riddance," John muttered. Sherlock sighed and opened the door to the toilet.

John floated in after him. "How long do you think he'll wait before coming to see if you're in here?" he asked, stretching his arms over his head.

Sherlock groaned and leaned against the wall. "I don't know. Not long, I'd think." He rubbed his head.

"Are you okay?" John asked softly.

"His non-stop chattering is giving me a headache."

"Hey…do you need help?"

Maybe that was his imagination, but that didn't sound like John. _Must be the headache_, Sherlock thought. "John, _how_ could you…"

"Who's John?"

Sherlock spun around. "Oh!"

It was the new boy, the one from his first class. _What was his name…?_ "Sorry, I- I didn't know anyone else was I here." Sherlock felt his ears warm.

"Oh no! You're fine!" The boy held up his hands. "I, uh, was just about to wash my hands…" he cleared his throat.

_He wants to ask something…_

"Yes?"

"Uh, not to be blunt, but were you talking to your ghost?"

John's eyes widened, and Sherlock's eyebrow rose. "My ghost?"

The boy – Greg, if he remembered correctly – started backing away. "Hell, I'm sorry! I just heard that you talked to ghosts and, well it just sounded like…"

Sherlock put up a hand. "It's alright." Sherlock saw that Greg had stains on his shirt that weren't there from that morning. And was that…crumbs? _He ate his lunch in here?_

"So…were you?"

"Why do you seem so interested?"

Greg was about to say something else, but shrugged it off instead. "I've never met someone who talked to ghosts before."

"And?"

"_And_…if you did, that'd be pretty cool."

Sherlock blinked. "'Cool'?"

"Yeah!"

_No one else has seen it to be 'cool'_, Sherlock thought. _He doesn't seem to have any mental illnesses, and his vision looks fine. So he actually thinks that seeing ghosts is…alright? I didn't even know that was humanly possible…_

"Well! If, uh, that's all, I'll just…" Greg headed for the door.

"Wait!" Sherlock said.

The boy paused and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't know what he was doing. He just suddenly blurted out the word, without even thinking. That was a first.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, "I was talking to my ghost."

"_Your _ghost?" John huffed. Sherlock smirked.

Greg's eyes widened. "Really? Is that who John is?"

"Yes." Sherlock pointed. "He's right there." Sherlock looked at John, and frowned. John was looking intensely at Greg, his eyes almost popping out of his head. He was grasping the hem of his sweater tightly, wringing it between his hands. _Hopeful,_ Sherlock thought_. He looks…hopeful._ Greg looked in the area where Sherlock was pointing, and smiled. Sherlock heard John gasp.

_He's hoping he'll see him,_ Sherlock internally gasped. _But does he? _

Greg walked toward John, and John kept his eyes glued to Greg as he got closer. Sherlock saw John's hands stop wringing his sweater and his hands start to shake. John's eyes got wider at every step Greg took toward him, and his hands shook faster with anticipation. Sherlock held his breath. _Wait,_ Sherlock thought as Greg moved in a direct path to John. _Can he actually see him?_ Sherlock's demeanor looked calm, while internally he was shaking. Did someone else see what he saw? Was he not alone?

Sherlock held his breath as Greg stopped and extended his arm.

"Nice too meet you, John. I'm Greg." Greg was beaming.

Sherlock felt as if someone had punched him in the chest. Greg had extended his hand - _right through John's chest_. Greg couldn't see him, either. Just like the rest of the world.

John looked from his chest up to Greg's smiling eyes, which were looking three centimeters to the right of his head.

"B-But…" John stammered. "But, that's not fair. That's _not fair_!" Sherlock thought he saw a tear fall from John's face.

"I- I thought you could see me? Why can't you bloody see me?" John's voice was rising, and his sad expression turned into anger.

"That – that was mean, tricking me like that. I thought you could see me. God damn it, _why can't you see me!?"_ John screamed. Suddenly, an unknown force emitted from John, and both Sherlock and Greg were thrown against the walls. Sherlock groaned and saw John with a frightened emotion on his face.

"Sherlock?"

The world turned black.

* * *

**A/N: Aaaannnddd I left you on a cliffhanger. Haha, yes, yes I did. Reviews are welcome, and I am aware that I am an evil person. You love me anyway. Even though my updates are irregular…but seriously, feedback on le fic would be marvelous.**


	7. Not Even a Nap

**A/N: I. Am. So. Sorry.**

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes, dreams fading as he blinked into consciousness. He squinted against the light that stared back at him, trying to organize his thoughts together. Where was he? He remembered the loo, and trying to get away from James. It was lunch at that time, and he'd only been in here for how long? Maybe ten minutes or less, he supposed. Then there was Greg, talking about John…

And then there was the explosion, with Sherlock falling down onto the cold floor. Oh, so that's where he was.

He tried sitting up and cried out as his head felt like it was being split open. Sherlock fell back on the floor, his head pulsating as he tried to focus on the ceiling. His stomach churned and he felt the room tilting from left to right. After the walls had stopped spinning, he noticed a hint of yellow at the corner of his eye. Sherlock slowly turned his head sideways, wincing as the pain flowed. John had a scow plastered on his face, his arms crossed as he looked, not at Sherlock, but at Sherlock's legs.

"John…"

"The damned idiot," John growled. "I ought to punch 'em in his bloody nose, the bastard."

Sherlock felt his chest tighten, until he realized that John meant Greg. He turned his head a little to the right, and there he was, sprawled out on the floor…bleeding out of the back of his head.

"Greg?" Sherlock called out.

He didn't move.

"Greg!?" He tried again. Greg still didn't respond. Sherlock looked up at John, ignoring the dull pounding at the back of his head. "John, go get help."

"You know I bloody well can't do that!" Sherlock sensed the dread in John's voice that happened whenever he attempted to make contact with people other than Sherlock.

"You've got to try." He felt something warm tickle the back of his ear, and the room around him slightly faded. "Or we'll both bleed to death."

John's eyes were like saucers.

"GO!"

John immediately jumped up and dashed out of the room, flying straight through the door. Sherlock groaned and inhaled sharply as a wave of nausea overcame him. He swallowed the feeling down. He then braced himself on the wall to his right, and pulled himself up, the world turning black for a moment, and then returning. Sherlock then turned himself on his stomach, and slowly crawled toward Greg.

_Oh,_ Sherlock thought, _don't let him be dead._

He reached Greg's foot, wrapped his jacket around his hand and pulled himself up on a urinal.

"Greg," Sherlock said softly. He shook him a little with his hand and breathed a sigh of relief as he felt warmth emanate from the unconscious boy's body. He shook him again, harder, until another wave of pain washed over his head. He cringed, pulling his knees in and waited for the sharp ache to pass. He then looked back at Greg, who hadn't moved a muscle. Sherlock, with only one option left, closed his eyes, lifted his hand, and slapped Greg squarely across the face.

Greg's breathing hitched, and his eyelids fluttered.

"Ahhh...wha?"

Sherlock internally relaxed. "Greg, can you hear me? It's Sherlock, the one from home room."

Greg slowly turned his head towards Sherlock's voice. "Not many other Sherlock's other than you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Greg started to smirk, before he keeled over in pain and cried out.

"Greg, Greg! You have a concussion. Stop _moving_."

Greg's hand came up to the back of his head, and returned with a dark substance on his hand. Judging by his wide eyes and his blatant increase in heartbeat, Sherlock concluded that he was going to scream again. Just as Greg's mouth opened to deliver the cry, Sherlock had his hand over Greg's mouth. The world blinked in and out of darkness. They didn't have much time.

_Where the hell is John?_

"I have someone getting help," Sherlock said quietly. "Don't scream, don't even think about screaming, don't…" Sherlock lightly slapped his dozing companion, "and definitely do _not_ go to sleep." Sherlock felt himself nod off.

"_...ey_!"

Sherlock looked up.

"No sleeping, remember?"

Sherlock nodded, and the boys spent the next minute lightly nudging each other, trying to make sure that the both of them didn't fall asleep for the last time.

"Ey, Sherlock?"

Sherlock jolted awake. "Yes, Greg?"

"Where's John?"

Sherlock noted that Greg didn't say this in a mocking tone. He wasn't teasing, or trying to make Sherlock admit that John wasn't real. He really wanted to know where John was.

"I asked him to….get help…"

Greg nodded lethargically.

Sherlock felt himself fading. John should have been here by now….. Sherlock remembered John's tone, how angry he looked as he left.

"Maybe he didn't get help after all…"

"No, I think…he got the…help."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, he seems like a…real friend…"

Sherlock was about to respond, but he couldn't open his mouth. He was too tired. Maybe a little nap couldn't hurt…

The door suddenly busted open, and in came the paramedics.

"Oh my god," a voice said before yelling, "THEY'RE IN HERE!"

Sherlock saw Greg smile before he slipped into unconsciousness.

"You see?" Greg asked, his voice soft, "There he is…."


End file.
